home the fruits of his enterprise and industry.  On my first visit, M. Megard was from home; but Madame, “son epouse, l’attendoit a chaque moment!” There is a particular class of women among the French, which may be said to be singularly distinguished for their intelligence, civility, and good breeding.  I mean the wives of the more respectable tradesmen.  Thus I found it, in addition to a hundred similar previous instances, with Madame Megard.  “Mais Monsieur, je vous prie de vous asseoir.  Que voulez vous?” “I wish to have a little conversation with your husband.  I am an enthusiastic lover of the art of printing.  I search every where for skilful printers, and thus it is that I come to pay my respects to Monsieur Megard.”  We both sat down and conversed together; and I found in Madame Megard a communicative, and well-instructed, representative of the said ancient Jenson, or modern Bulmer.  “Enfin, voila mon mari qui arrive”—­said Madame, turning round, upon the opening of the door:—­when I looked forward, and observed a stout man, rather above the middle size, with a countenance perfectly English—­but accoutred in the dress of the national guard, with a grenadier cap on his head.  Madame saw my embarrassment:  laughed:  and in two minutes her husband knew the purport of my visit.  He began by expressing his dislike of the military garb:  but admitted the absolute necessity of adopting such a measure as that of embodying a national guard.  “Soyez le bien venu; Ma foi, je ne suis que trop sensible, Monsieur, de l’honneur que vous me faites—­vu que vous etes antiquaire typographique, et que vous avez publie des ouvrages relatifs a notre art.  Mais ce n’est pas ici qu’il faut en chercher de belles epreuves.  C’est a Paris.”

I parried this delicate thrust by observing that I was well acquainted with the fine productions of Didot, and had also seen the less aspiring ones of himself; of which indeed I had reason to think his townsmen might be proud.  This I spoke with the utmost sincerity.  My first visit concluded with two elegant little book-presents, on the part of M. Megard—­one being Heures de Rouen, a l’usage du Diocese, 1814, 12mo. and the other Etrennes nouvelles commodes et utiles; 1815, 12mo.—­the former bound in green morocco; and the latter in calf, with gilt leaves, but printed on a sort of apricot-tinted paper—­producing no unpleasing effect.  Both are exceedingly well executed.  My visits to M. Megard were rather frequent.  He has a son at the College Royale, or Lycee, whither I accompanied him, one Sunday morning, and took the church of that establishment in the way.  It is built entirely in the Italian style of architecture:  is exceedingly spacious:  has a fine organ, and is numerously attended.  The pictures I saw in it, although by no means of first-rate merit, quite convince me that it is in churches of Roman, and not of Gothic architecture, that paintings produce the most harmonious effect.  This college and church form a noble establishment, situated in one of the most commanding eminences of the town.  From some parts of it, the flying buttresses of the nave of the Abbey of St. Ouen, with the Seine at a short distance, surmounted by the hills and woods of Canteleu as a back ground, are seen in the most gloriously picturesque manner.